


Painting Memories

by Tehri



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Frodo's painting skills, Mild Hurt/Comfort, grieving process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8148668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: Fifty-three years, and Bilbo's mood still turns black during a certain time of year. Frodo, having lived with his uncle for only a few years, thinks of something that might help.





	

A few days every year, Bilbo’s mood would turn black. He’d become more reclusive and lock himself away in his study or his bedroom, and snap at anyone who disturbed him. He’d never mean any harsh words, but they were spoken all the same. When Frodo moved into Bag End, he quickly noticed that asking about his uncle’s adventures during those days turned the older hobbit’s mood sour indeed, and any and all requests for stories were met with a sharp “that’s quite enough of that now” and a glare usually reserved for anyone sneering at him for befriending dwarves. As confusing as it had been at first, Frodo was far from ignorant; he reasoned with himself that he’d never seen his uncle during that period of the year before, and the only times Bilbo communicated with him during those days had been by letter. But now that they shared a living space, Frodo was bound to see more sides of his uncle and cousin than the jovial and adventurous ones.

 

It was only during the fourth year that Frodo decided to attempt to cheer his uncle up a little bit. He wasn’t certain that it would work, but it was at the very least worth an attempt. He counted the days, noting carefully how Bilbo became a little more distant, until the morning came when the older hobbit merely greeted him at breakfast with a short “good morning” before heading back to his study. Frodo didn’t smile. No, what soured his uncle’s mood so was nothing to smile at, if it was indeed what the young hobbit thought it was.

That entire day, Frodo spent in the parlour with paper and ink that Bilbo had gifted him on their birthday. He’d had the idea to draw something for his dear uncle for a long time, but had so far only managed a few small images; a drawing of The Hill and Bag End, a portrait of Bilbo and Gandalf sitting on the bench in the garden and smoking, and an old picture of a view of the Brandywine. This was going to be very different. For one, the subjects of the image were people he’d never met and only had Bilbo’s descriptions to go by. He worked until the light from the windows began to fade and he was forced to rise and stoke the fire, noticing only then that he was growing hungry.

“Is it that time already?” he murmured to himself, frowning as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I suppose I should check on Bilbo. If he’s left his study at all today, I certainly haven’t noticed…”

He left the parlour, heading towards the study and lighting candles along the way in places that were not illuminated by the setting sun any longer. He paused outside the door, hesitating and wondering briefly at the heavy silence in the room. He couldn’t even hear the customary scratching of pen against paper. Just as he lifted his hand to knock, he suddenly heard Bilbo snap:

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to say what you want?”

Frodo frowned, wondering if Bilbo had been listening for sounds in the passage all along, and opened the door.

“It’s about time for supper, uncle,” he said carefully. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Bilbo glanced over his shoulder; the old hobbit’s eyes were dark, and he looked as though food was the last thing on his mind.

“There’s always the ham you got at the market the other day,” Frodo suggested with a small smile. “I could whip something up and call for you when it’s ready?”

There was another moment of silence, and Frodo was quite prepared to close the door and leave when Bilbo finally sighed and shook himself.

“No, I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ve been in here all day. Perhaps at least a small change of scenery is required.” He gave his nephew a small tired smile. “Even though it’s only to move to the kitchen.”

Though still pensive and withdrawn, Bilbo seemed to lighten up just a little bit while they cooked and had their supper. Frodo watched him for a while as they ate, and once they were done and had begun to clean up, he asked:

“Do you still have those coloured inks, uncle? The ones you brought from Bree after your last visit there?”

Bilbo blinked in surprise, the clouds seemingly clearing from his mind as he turned to look at Frodo.

“Yes, I should have them in my study,” he admitted. “Why?”

“Well, I have a painting to finish.” Frodo smiled brightly and rocked back on his heels a little, a little giddy at the curious look on his uncle’s face. “And I realised that there are a few specific colours I’ll need for it.”

“Well, if you’d like, you might take the whole box,” Bilbo stated. “I won’t need it for a while, at any rate.”

Frodo tried very hard not to whoop with joy; after all, it wasn’t certain that Bilbo would enjoy that. As soon as they were done cleaning up, he hurried into the study to fetch the box, and Bilbo followed him calmly and waited for him to pick it up and step back into the hallway.

“Thank you so much, uncle,” Frodo said happily. “I’ll let you see it when it’s done!”

Before the older hobbit could answer, he dashed down the hallway to the parlour.

Finishing the picture was not a very difficult matter. If there was something Bilbo had been clear about in his descriptions, it was the colours; perhaps it might seem odd to others, but Frodo knew quite well that his uncle had a good memory for such things. How else had he remembered such small details?

The picture was, to be fair, not incredibly detailed. But he did have a limited amount of information to work with, and he’d only seen drawings of the subjects once before when Bilbo had left a few papers out in his study.

“It’ll do,” he muttered to himself the next day as he frowned and squinted at the picture while carefully colouring some smaller details. “It’ll be fine.”

After finally putting it to dry, he considered his options. Perhaps he ought to wait a little. It would be a while before it would be entirely dry, and perhaps he could have it framed somehow.

“No, that will take too long,” he told himself. “No way to tell how long precisely, but framing takes a good long while…”

 

To say that Bilbo was in a bad mood did not quite cover it. There was a myriad of emotions swirling inside him that he struggled to make sense of, and even after fifty three long years it was difficult to make sense of each one. In a sense, he felt almost robbed; what could have been had been ripped away from him all too soon. So many things that he had wanted to do, wanted to see, and none of them possible.

It wasn’t fair. It simply wasn’t fair, that he should be left alone in the quiet and quite frankly boring rolling hills of the Shire.

No, not alone. Not quite. He had Frodo now, after all, and the lad had enough Tookishness about him to make him a wonderful companion. Though perhaps the Brandybuck-blood played into that just as well.

Two days so far. He sat there in his study on the morning of the third day, staring blankly at the book before him. He wanted to work, wanted to continue writing, but he couldn’t find the right words. He had a few papers beside him, all filled with suggested and crossed out passages. None of them fit; he wanted to tell his story properly, and it wasn’t the first time that he’d hit a proper snag. It was always more difficult during this time of the year, when autumn was nearing its end and winter was rapidly approaching. But having two days where he’d been unable to write anything was unusual.

“Small wonder,” he mumbled to himself as he put down his feather-pen once more after crossing out yet another passage on one of the papers. “Come now, Baggins, you have to make some progress…”

He peered at the book; he really hadn’t gotten far, no further than the troll-incident. At least what he had written into the book already was not the stilted and lifeless passages that his mind would produce now. It sounded just as he would usually tell it, just as it all happened. But there was so much more to tell, and if he were to wait a few more days, he felt as though he would go mad. He wanted to write. _Had_ to write. Soon it would be Yule, and then most of his time would be taken up by relatives. He wanted to at least finish the aftermath of the troll-incident and move on to the days spent in Rivendell before then.

“This simply won’t do,” he muttered. “It’s a very simple passage, why in the world am I having such trouble with it?”

A knock on the door interrupted his muttering, and he couldn’t stop himself from scowling at the noise. He reluctantly turned his head to glare at the door as it opened, and Frodo peeked inside.

“Am I interrupting you, uncle?” the lad asked cautiously. “Should I leave?”

Annoyed though he was, Bilbo couldn’t stop a tug at his heartstrings at the sight of Frodo’s nervous expression. It was the same way the lad had looked when his parents had just died and he’d had to stay with his cousin Saradoc, as well as when he’d only just moved into Bag End and was not yet used to having as much freedom as Bilbo offered him.

“Is something the matter?” the older hobbit asked, turning fully to his nephew. “Do you need anything, Frodo?”

“Well, no, I don’t,” Frodo admitted with a sheepish smile. “I only wanted to return the inks.” He stepped into the room, carrying the box with inks under his arm and a rolled up paper in his hand. “And I did say I wanted you to see what I had been painting.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. He was happy that Frodo wanted to show him – goodness knew the lad could be incredibly secretive and quiet – and already had multiple of his paintings framed and hung on the walls. Though perhaps it was not the best time.

“Make it quick, Frodo-lad,” he sighed. “I am sorry for being short with you, but I really must try to write a little more today.”

“You’re stuck?” Frodo asked curiously as he manoeuvred the box onto a small shelf. “Is something wrong?”

“This time of year always makes it difficult,” Bilbo muttered. “I can’t find the words, is all. It’s clear enough in my head, but I can’t seem to put it into writing.” He groaned and leant back in his father’s old chair, the old wood creaking at the movement. “It shouldn’t be so difficult. I’ve told this story a hundred times, if not more, and suddenly words simply refuse to form sentences.”

Frodo smiled at him.

“You’ve hit a snag, that’s all,” the lad stated. “It happens to everyone, uncle. You’ll be back to writing in no time.” He held up the rolled up paper. “And in the meantime, I hope you’ll like this.”

Bilbo gave a tired smile in return and took the paper from his nephew’s hand. He did not feel quite so convinced that he’d be able to write anytime soon, certainly not before Yule had come and gone. But Frodo’s optimism did make him feel a little better. He turned his eyes to the paper as he unrolled it, his eyes suddenly widening at what he saw.

Three figures decorated the painting; from their stature and their clothing, it was easy enough for anyone to tell that they were dwarves. But the faces, the colours of their hair and eyes, those told Bilbo exactly who they were. Though they were not quite as he could remember them, seeing how Frodo had never met them, it was undoubtedly Thorin and his nephews Fili and Kili, seated on what looked like the bench outside of Bag End. Fili seemed to be toying with a dagger, grinning while listening to his younger brother, and Kili had an infectious grin on his face as he held his arms up in the air as though he had just told a silly joke. And Thorin, holding his pipe in his hand, was smiling warmly at his nephews’ antics.

“Do you like it?” Frodo asked shyly. “I know it probably doesn’t look a lot like them, but I thought I’d try anyway.”

Bilbo was dimly aware of that his hands were shaking. There were tears rising in his eyes, though he tried to stop them from falling. He wondered in a distant corner of his mind if Frodo had ever so much as seen him cry, and if it would worry him. But mostly, he thought of his friends. He thought of Fili and Kili, whom he never had a chance to bid goodbye; last time he had seen them had been at a great distance, when the dwarves charged out from the mountain, and he remembered thinking then that they had been made to grow up far too quickly. He thought of Thorin, the very dwarf he would have gone to the end of the world for, and remembered the dwarf king’s final words on his deathbed.

_Go back to your books, and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow. If more people valued food and cheer and song over hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world._

And as a memory of a dream, Bilbo recalled his own words:

_Every time I look at it, I’ll remember. Remember everything that happened, the good, the bad… and how lucky I am to have made it home._

“It’s lovely, Frodo.” He was barely aware that he was about to speak until the words were out of his mouth, and he raised his head to give the lad a smile. “It’s really lovely.”

“Uncle, are you crying?” Frodo blinked and reached out to take Bilbo’s hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo hurried to say, wiping at his eyes with his hand. “It’s been a long time since I saw them, is all.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I often think of them around this time of the year, you see.”

“I thought so,” Frodo admitted, giving his uncle a small smile. “You’ve told me before that they passed at the end of Blotmath, so your mood rather made sense.”

“Fifty-three years,” Bilbo sighed. “You’d think that would be enough, wouldn’t you?”

“You said after mum and da passed that it depended on the person,” Frodo said carefully. “And that some never make it through the grieving process.”

“Are you implying that I might never make it past this?” Bilbo asked, raising an eyebrow. He couldn’t help but smile as he spoke. “No, I’m only teasing, lad. It’s true; it might take a lot more time than this. Goodness knows my poor mum never really came back to her old self after da passed.” He wiped away the last of the tears and got to his feet. “Well, Frodo, what do you say we find a place for our dwarves? Perhaps in the hallway?”

Frodo beamed and nodded eagerly.

“Either the hallway or the kitchen,” he stated. “Or in here. It could look nice by the desk, couldn’t it?”

“Either way, a frame comes first,” Bilbo chuckled. “But I suppose master Brownlock could help us with that.”

“Maybe a frame in oak?” Frodo suggested with a bright grin.

“Heavy, but fitting.” Bilbo grinned back and patted Frodo’s shoulder. “Thorin would’ve appreciated the gesture, I’m sure.” He laughed and shook his head. “And Fili and Kili would have started calling him Oakenframe.”

Fifty-three years was a long time. But perhaps it would be easier if he could see them and remember a little better.

**Author's Note:**

> Blotmath - the "month" in the Shire calendar that covers the period of 22nd October to 20th November.


End file.
